All posts by Charles

Gertie, a Love Dog

Imbolc and the Shadow Mountain Moon

Following the metaphor one post below. Got knocked off my board, almost carried away by rip tides. Gertie has cancer, maybe a couple of weeks to live. Vet this morning.

Pet euthanasia. I’m an outlier on this one, I know. I realized how opposed I am to it when Buck died in my arms at the UofM vet hospital. The pink liquid the vet injected worked. He died. All I could think: he trusted me.

Since then all of our dogs but two, Orion and Sorsha, have received home hospice care until their death. What I want for Gertie, too.

Climbing down into the dark well that is my aversion. The well is deep and cold, might be bottomless. Might be my Mom’s death is in there. I know for sure the issues of trust and choice are. Our dogs trust me with their lives for their whole lives. They have no ability to enter into the decision.

Lots of folks, the majority I imagine, the great majority, see euthanasia as a final kindness. I don’t. It’s wound up in what’s convenient, less messy, easier.

Gertie has trouble walking now. When Orion reached that stage with his osteosarcoma, we had to euthanize him. I couldn’t pick him up, take him outside, bring him back inside. 190 pounds. 30 pounds more than me at the time. Even though I agreed it needed to be done, I still couldn’t stand to be there.

I was in Kate’s sewing room, hyper-ventilating and crying. Feeling like I had betrayed both Orion and myself. Kate was there. I felt ashamed that I couldn’t support her, or Orion, but, I couldn’t.

Now that Gertie’s home I took her doggy bed down from the loft. Kate suggested it. Gertie stayed up here with me most days since we moved here 5 years ago. Even when her back right leg gave her trouble, a botched operation on a torn acl, she came up here on three legs. Now Murdoch is here, lying right where the doggy bed used to be.

Her diagnosis is neither unexpected, nor unusual. Gertie’s an old dog, our oldest, at 12. And, a rascal for all 12 years. So much fun. Sweet, too. Her kisses were meant. Not random licks for salt or submission. How do I know? I just do.

The well. That holy well. I remember the first time. When the doctor told Dad and me, Mom’s stroke had left her in a vegetative state. No coming back. Damn. 17. 3 in the morning at Riley Hospital in Indianapolis. Hard plastic chairs. Down. Down. Down. I didn’t climb back up out of that well until I quit drinking.

The holy wells of Ireland and Wales are portals to the Other World. A place where rags get tied on trees, flowers left by the opening, or, where the water gushes up from Mother Earth.

Suppose this means I need to go down this well again. Still. Live at the bottom for a while. Greet the darkness, my old friend. Might be where I get my love of fecund darkness, of quiet darkness, of the longest night.

Anyhow, Gertie. We’ll make her comfortable.

Just Another Saturday

Imbolc and the Shadow Mountain Moon

Sunday gratefuls: SeoAh. What a treasure in our lives. I pick her up around eleven. The zoomguys: Paul, Tom, Mark, Bill. Old friends. Nothing better. Sundays. Still a restful day, a quasi-sabbath. Snow coming.

Last Saturday we went to the Porter Adventist E.R. (not sure it’s worthy of the name) to have Kate’s feeding tube replaced. The onsite doc did not want to do it, but decided, after consultation with Kate’s surgeon, Ed Smith, to go ahead. His first instinct was right. He put in the wrong size tube. Yesterday we went to see Ed. He’s going to slip a new one in on Monday or Tuesday.

When he saw Kate’s obvious progress, he beamed in his off-center way, head cocked to one side. He’d grown, like most folks do, to appreciate Kate. He asked for a hug before we left. Ed gives a damn. May his kind flourish.

5 days with no fights, no bites. OSHA sign in the room where we feed the dogs. Two Jeffco animal control officers came by for the 5 day check on Kepler’s health. Which is fine. We purchased a Colorado license for Murdoch from them. I knew where his shot records were. Kep got his new license last week.

The guy was big, solid, and young, looked ex-military. The woman with him was the trainee. She did the paperwork while he observed.

“I don’t believe I caught your name?” “Charlie.” “Officer Clark.”

Replaying this because his, “Officer Clark” took me by surprise. I realized then that titles are as much about distance as they are about honorifics. I’m Charlie, a citizen in his home. This was an Officer of the state. In this interaction he held the power, so he needed a gap between familiarity and his role.

They’ll be back on Thursday for the 10 day check on Kep, then he’ll be free. Of course, his freedom now has a check mark against it. Just read the Jeffco animal control ordinance. Not as bad as I feared. Vicious dogs are those who bite off the dog owner’s premises. On site, not vicious. Another report would not be good, but it would not be fatal, either.

We’ve had Kep here five years and he’s never been reported before. No bites to humans. I imagine that will continue.

SeoAh’s plane leaves San Francisco in 48 minutes. It will be a relief to have her here. I need the rest and we need to work out a new plan. Not sure what it will be right now.

The Big City

Imbolc and the Leap Year Moon (ok. just noticed this moon doesn’t encompass February 29th. So, I’m gonna change it.) from now until Feb. 22nd-the Shadow Mountain Moon.

Saturday gratefuls: Jon, who seems to be righting his inner ship. Rigel, who gave me a black eye. Geez, gal. The U.S. Senate. Yes, I mean it. At least their horror show is public. The House of Representatives and Nancy. Stood on their hind legs. Two legs good. The moon and its apparent journeys across our sky. The stuff of romance. SeoAh, who comes tomorrow.

The wounds from my second bite have finally begun to heal up. Still a good ways to go, but less tender. Kate took my stitches out at the kitchen table yesterday. Nice to have an urgent care clinic just behind our stove. The second bite was a week ago yesterday. Antonio was Monday.

Into Denver to GOZO, a restaurant on my favorite Denver street, Broadway. Jon and I talked. A bit hard because the room was very live and my hearing aid seemed waxy. Those of you with hearing aids will understand.

Jon’s wrestling with his life, as he has as long as I’ve known him, but this time I think he’s learned a new move. His self awareness has grown markedly over the last year. He knows what he needs to do. He’s clear about it. Now if the depression will stay at bay. We’re meeting every couple of weeks for dinner.

Got a table right next to the multi-paned garage door. Outside Denver city life walked by. That woman with the calf high leather boots, big heels. The woman on her phone, her baby scanning the sidewalk. A man and a woman kissing while the man walked backwards and the woman held his head close. The homeless guy I greeted on the way in, later wrapped in what appeared to be a homemade quilt.

Picked up Kate’s new iPad at the Apple Repair place. Nice folks. Willing to help. Not pricey at all.

Often when I go into Denver I find the drive stressful. Too many cars, streets too tight, lots of lights. Lots. Last night I drove down Broadway after leaving Jon and found it soothing. I know this street now. Where certain landmarks are. I like it’s funky, changeable nature. At one point it could called the Green Mile due to the number of dispensaries. Art galleries, interior design studios. Boarded up storefronts. Used car lots.

It was still good to leave the city behind and drive through the hogback at Co. 470 and 285, climbing again. Cars thin out, the lights dim, and the clear sky begins to show more stars. Five years plus now. Five years.

Speak, Rock

Winter and the Leap Year Moon

Friday gratefuls: Kate’s improvement and her skill as a doc. Kep, his kindness. Gertie, getting up, moving around. Rigel, who prances. Murdoch, whose youthful energy keeps me hopping. The 400+ episodes of Resurrection: Ertugrul. The Pho place in Evergreen.

How can a silent God speak? Remember Art Green’s challenge to himself: Does adding the word God help or obscure? Not sure how I feel about his answer, as I said yesterday. He answers not only in the affirmative, but then uses that affirmation to retrieve Jewish civilization (as does Mordecai Kaplan), especially the Torah.

The motive force behind the evolving, becoming universe. That’s god in Art Green’s formulation. Not too far from a usual understanding of god, at least in theological thought. He does, however, state explicitly that he does not believe in the god of the liturgy, the Torah, the one god he came to know in his early Jewish immersion. (His parents were atheists and he became Orthodox for a while in his youth.) It is, I just realized, also close to Aristotle’s idea of a prime mover.

If I understand Green correctly, he answers the question of how a silent god can speak with his claim that evolution is the new sacred narrative. As the Big History idea of evolution sees it, the universe began with the big bang (the tzim tzum) and has proceeded from there to create stars, galaxies, planets, empty space, and all the processes that occur in those stars, galaxies, planets, and empty space. Big History includes all this and its eventual winking out (big freeze, big crush) or its eternal existence in its definition of history.

On earth the motive force, god, has pushed elemental matter into many shapes: rocks, water, atmosphere, and, life. God has done this silently, working through molecules and accidents, deep sea vents and tidal pools. Following evolution’s arrow (not the same as time) from the inorganic to the organic, from the simple one-celled organic to the complex, conscious human, we can see the language of this silent god.

God, this universal motive force, acting in all places at all times, speaks in granite, sea water, fertile soil, amoebas and bonobos. These are the phrases in god’s expansive book, one written in such a way that a conscious mind will wonder about it. Try to find its place among its pages.

This is the silent god asking the first question of the book of Genesis: where are you? The same question god asks of Adam and Eve after they’ve eaten of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. Where are you, human, in the ongoing dance that is this emerging world?

I’m with Green up to this point. I can hear the silent god speak. What Green contends, if I’m clear on this, is that religions are repositories of guides and signals, hints at how to commune with the one hidden within the many. They are all partial glimpses, I think, but Green’s project is to transform all religions (I’m extrapolating here.) into avenues for mystical consciousness, a direct relationship with this motive power within and among all things.

Far enough for today. The Silent god speaks. But how can religions serve as fingers pointing to this moon? Maybe tomorrow.

A God of Silence

Winter and the Leap Year Moon

Thursday gratefuls: Art Green, author of Radical Judaism. Zoom technology. Brother Mark’s insights about his work in Saudi Arabia. Gertie’s visible improvement. Murdoch. The Kep. Rigel, who prances in from the outside like she’s 3, not 11. Kate’s rebound from a tough early afternoon.

Intellectual vertigo.

“What could it possibly mean to speak of Torah as “God’s word” or “revelation” in the religious context I am offering here? I challenge myself yet again, as I do frequently, asking whether my mystical language is not merely an obfuscation of my disbelief. God is Y-H-W-H, the wholeness of Being, the energy that makes for existence, the engine that drives the evolutionary process. This is a God of silence…” p. 92, Radical Judaism, Art Green.

The vibration in Art’s challenge to himself is what I call intellectual vertigo. I feel it while reading his work, while contemplating the unusual congruence between his well-formulated, honest ideas and my own less systematic thoughts over the past 65 years.

I’ve pushed away the embrace of all major religious traditions. I know some of you have, too.

Modernism offers the empirical method as its intellectual scythe. Richard Dawkins, Sam Harris, Christopher Hutchins all wielded this scythe, believing it allowed them to cut through the obfuscation that Green fears and find nothing. This modernist versus religion cage match has resulted in a situation not unlike our current political one. Two sides, fearing and loathing the other, generating quantities of heat, but little light.

Step through the door of post-modernism, however, and a new range of possibilities occur. Post-modernism, to those of us like Art Green, raised firmly in the arms of modernism, can seem dizzying. Vertigo inducing. Art leaps the uncanny valley between Newton and Niels Bohr with mysticism.

The confidence once placed in Newton’s thought was as certain as certain could be. He deployed the scientific method, mathematics, and logic like fine scalpels, flensing the musculature, then the organ systems of our cosmos for all to see.

Einstein shook his electric hair. Not quite. Then Bohr and others developed the Copenhagen Consensus, describing a sub-microscopic world buzzing with uncertainty, with probability rather than certainty, with spooky action at a distance entailed its thought. Classical physics (modernity) and quantum mechanics (post-modernity) have not yet reconciled.

Those of us shaped as religious persons in the modern era have also failed to reconcile the older, confident dogmas of the many religions to the newer, science-affirming ways of understanding. One avenue for this reconciliation is an understanding of language as a mediator which stands between each human and core reality.

In this case any language, including the Torah, the Upanishads, the Diamond Sutra, the Tao Te Ching, the Gospel of Mark or Matthew or John or Luke, does not “reveal,” but covers truth. That is, since language is the way that our thinking manages all data, sensory data included, words and letters are a real, unbreachable (perhaps) barrier between us and reality.

When the religious instinct (I don’t know what else to call it.) imbibes from this stream of post-modernist thought, a possibility occurs not available in modernism. In modernism we’re stuck with Wittgenstein, “Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.” (Tractatus 7). If there is a reality behind the screen of language, we can’t know it, so we must be silent.

But. If we make the post-modern leap and accept a broader view of evidence, including our heart and Big History*, we can make out, as Green does, a unifier, “…the wholeness of Being, the energy that makes for existence, the engine that drives the evolutionary process.” It is this wholeness of being with which we interact in a mysterious way.

As a side note, I keep wanting to change Green’s metaphysics as I read his book. Key example above, the wholeness of being. I’d prefer the wholeness of becoming. He goes on in the next phrase to talk about the energy that makes for existence, for example.

This mystical dip into the silent world behind language, or before language, allows us contact with the Becoming, the energy that makes for existence. This is the God of Silence. Silent, yes, but in possession of all the agency that there is.

The question then becomes, if you track with me this far, how does a God of Silence communicate? How does this most ancient (or, timeless) motive force speak across the quiet. And, across the barrier thrown up by language?

This becomes the central religious question, is the central religious question. Not sure I’m fully on board with Green’s answer, but it’s a good shot anyhow. Another post and I’ll elaborate.

* “Big History is an academic discipline which examines history from the Big Bang to the present. Big History resists specialization, and searches for universal patterns or trends. It examines long time frames using a multidisciplinary approach based on combining numerous disciplines from science and the humanities, and explores human existence in the context of this bigger picture.” David Christian. (I corresponded with Christian for a while after listening to a Great Courses class he taught.)

Antonio

Winter and the Leap Year Moon

Oh, man. Antonio the dog trainer came. Murdoch bit him. Shit.

Antonio is a young man, maybe 30. A lumberjack or hipster beard, hiking boots, jeans, a blue wool jacket. He has an easy smile and wore what I recognized as a Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy hat. My kinda guy.

He met all of our dogs though Gertie held back because her left rear leg has given her trouble the last couple of days. Rigel went up to him as he came in the door. Snuggled up to her new bff. Kep came over and sniffed him after vigorously announcing his arrival.

Time to meet Murdoch, who was outside. I let him in the sewing room, the door closed to the rest of the house. Antonio put Murdoch through sit, heel, then down. Murdoch didn’t move. Antonio said most dogs don’t like down because it’s submissive. He hit the e-collar once on a very low setting and Murdoch immediately went down.

We talked about the situations that had prompted a fight. Murdoch seemed to be the aggressor, I said, and wouldn’t stop when Kep rolled over. The second fight they came in Kep in the lead and Murdoch behind growling. Antonio said that sounded like Kep was the aggressor.

We agreed to try Kep and Murdoch outside. I got Antonio a leash for Murdoch, but couldn’t find one for Kep. Antonio said that was ok, so I came out with Kep by my side. Kep turned away from Murdoch, not approaching. Murdoch growled.

We moved around the yard, keeping a distance. Murdoch gradually calmed down. It was this kind of desensitization that Antonio thought could work. Feed them each on one side of a glass door. Walks in the back. Hopefully calm them down enough so they could be inside together.

Antonio thought they could come closer, so I approached with Kep. Murdoch dove for Kep. Antonio fell on Murdoch, but Kep had come up to defend himself and in the struggle one of them bit Antonio. Through his jacket. Just like mine. A big gash, maybe 3 inches by 3/4’s.

Inside. My wife’s a doctor. Blood dripping on the deck, the tile. His arm over the same sink where mine was on Thursday. Kate took care of him, bandaged him, ironically, with some of the supplies given to us at the Swedish E.R.

He’s in tears, agonized, shaking. What to do? Called his wife. Got a time to go to the Conifer Medical Center. He’s gone. Don’t know anymore.

Jesus Christ.

Dick Clark

Winter and the Leap Year Moon

Sunday gratefuls: Healing on my wrists and hands. Kate’s feeding tube back in place. Again. Ruby and her seat heater, her dual climate controls. Nice yesterday. The loft. A place to be me, to take in the matters of the last three weeks or so. Kate for finding this house with the loft in waiting.

Well. Sometimes the hits just keep on coming. Dick Clark.

Friday night Kate’s feeding tube popped out again. Geez. I put it back in so the stoma would not close, then we spent most of yesterday in the E.R. at Porter Adventist. (never again there) After much dithering by a newbie e.r. doc, a new tube got inserted. Took over 4 hours for a five minute procedure. The place was more like a morgue than a hospital. Very, very quiet. Our internist’s practice found it for us.

The feeding tube has gotten Kate’s weight up to the 100 pound range, ensured her good nutrition which she can’t achieve by mouth any longer, and been a much, much less fussy tech than the pic line feedings. However, still with its own quirks.

The first time it popped out was shocking for both of us. By this one, the third, we just want it put back in and let us go home, please. Also, we’d like it to stop popping out.

Medical matters have inundated us. Some critical, most not. We’re managing, staying ahead, but barely. Wish there was a magic bullet, but I don’t see one. Keep schlepping. Keep each other strong. Do what needs doing.

A plateau here would be nice. Let things calm down. Get our breath. Not sure if that’s gonna happen right now.

Watch and Learn

Winter and the Future Moon

Thursday gratefuls: Alan is back from the Bahamas. Our regular breakfasts. Rabbi Jamie’s clear explanation about Judaism as a vehicle for mystical consciousness. Our Thursday afternoon mussar class. A lot of good friends in that one. MVP tonight. Friends there, too.

Got the new vegetable chopper. Ready for the next round of Israeli salad or pico de gallo.

I’m on episode 73 out of the 80 in the final season of Resurrection: Ertugrul. That means I’ve watched a whole lot of episodes. I’ve enjoyed the storylines, the immersion in an imagined Turkic tribal culture, and the sets, costumes. Are the plot holes in it big enough to swing a sword through without hitting anything? Oh, yeah. Is some of it melodramatic? Hmm. Yes. But as a story of a people committed to a cause, suffering for it, and succeeding, a good one.

Read a NYT article yesterday about M.B.Z., Mohammed bin-Zayed, ruler of the United Arab Emirates. His father, Zayed, was a pluralist and a believer in a tolerant, peaceful Islam. He opposed Islamists of all stripes. Mohammed, after a flirtation with Islamists, experienced 9/11 and converted to his father’s opinion.

MBZ sounds like a contemporary Erugrul. He has a particular perspective on Islam and has put his Emirates resources behind it. He fought the Islamists in the UAE, finding those who collabarated with bin Laden, three of the attackers were Emiratis. He had 200 Emiratis arrested and about 1,600 hundred foreigners.

He has lifted up women and the poor. He has fought in other nations for a more tolerant form of Islam. His troops are in Libya right now and have been a major force in Yemen.

Though the Saudi state is, as the journalist Jamal Khashoggi, said, “…the mother and father of political Islam.”, MBZ mentors MBS, Mohammed bin Salman, the Saudi Crown Prince accused of ordering Khashoggi’s death. MBZ wants to temper the Wahhabi stream of Islam, the one married to the founding of the Saudi state and radical in its political ideas. Wahhabi funded madrasa around the Middle East and elsewhere in the Islamic world spread its violent propensities.

Resurrection: Ertugrul showcases the Islamic love of a strong leader, a Prophet, a Caliph, an Emperor who loves his people and will do whatever it takes to keep them safe and prosperous. MBZ, like Ertugrul, has an affiliation for Sufi’s and is a Sunni.

Americans, as democrats (small d) and individualists, children of the Enlightenment, will find both Ertugrul and MBZ, and MBS for that matter, suffocating. Like the clan chieftain he was Ertugrul relied on the leaders of his tribe, beys, for authority in decision making. They met in council and debated issues before the Bey, bey of the whole Kayi tribe, Ertugrul in the later episodes, made a final decision.

The councils were advisory, though. The Bey’s decision was the one that mattered. Same with MBZ and MBS. There’s a lot paternalism and patriarchy running through Resurrection: Ertugrul and the worlds of MBZ and MBS.

Autocrats. Much like Egypt, Syria, Iran. Erdogan in Turkey. Some benevolent. Some not. I suspect much of Resurrection comes from contemporary fantasies for a return to the noble Caliphate of Harun al-Rashid. It certainly glorifies the mujaheddin, the warrior of jihad, of Allah’s Holy War. And it glorifies the strong central authority figure, Ertugrul. It could be seen as propaganda for Islamist extremists though I don’t believe that’s its intent.

I’ll miss the antics of Bamsi, the ax of Turgut, the strong swordarm and wisdom of Ertugrul. Finishing this week. Wow.

Broken. Replaced.

Winter and the Future Moon

Tuesday gratefuls: Hot water in San Francisco! Diane’s recommendation of “Getting Open.” Sleep. Rest. Feeling rejuvenated. The U.S. grocery store. The NYT for endorsing Amy and Elizabeth. Blizzaks. AWD on Ruby. Healing from the dog bite. Almost done.

Cooked last night. Deep fried chicken chunks from a deli chicken. Coated with bread crumbs. Surprisingly good. Broke our vegetable chopper, too. A second time. I prefer hand tools in the kitchen for food prep. Knives, choppers, dicers, zesters. We have a mandolin somewhere and I want to find it. Just ordered a Swedish chopper, made of metal. More durable.

Broke the chopper making a version of Israeli salad. It was the onions that did it in. Well, not the onion, but me, pressing down quick and hard on the onion. Little blades popped off the cutting grid. Not supposed to happen. Got the salad, diced onions (by knife), tomatoes, cucumber, and a generous sprinkling of cilantro. Some lime juice. Some Italian seasoning.

But. I was also gonna warm up the cabbage and potatoes in the microwave. Put them in the microwave at the start. Kate’s taught me to get all the ingredients out before I begin. Forgot about the potatoes and the cabbage. Still in the microwave this morning.

Oh, yeah. Finally got the microwave installed. After the first appointment, I had to have an electrician come out to create a wall socket for it, then reschedule the installation. Happened Saturday. Kate is very happy. She can reheat her coffee. Hot coffee and the crossword in the morning make Kate a happy gal. I’m indifferent to coffee temperature. Cold. Hot. Meh. Not a gourmet.

Spent time yesterday on another modern chore. Cutting up boxes. We get our dogfood through chewy.com. Great service. Reasonable prices. Free shipping. And large cardboard boxes. Bought some airtight dogfood containers, too, through Amazon. Really big boxes. As I’ve noted before, the home has become a shipping and receiving department. All those cardboard boxes that used to get cut up at the warehouse or in the back of the store are now in living rooms across America. Or, garages.

Anyone rural appreciates the chance to look things up online and order them for delivery. Beats going on a Saturday morning quest for the right pan or sheets or, say, a vegetable chopper. Especially if the stores are miles and miles away. Makes a huge difference to caregivers like me, too. It’s why Sears and Roebuck did so well with their catalog. A shame they couldn’t make the transition to an economy much like the one they introduced back in the late 19th century.

Got doggy things to do now. Tomorrow.

WWMD?

Winter and the Future Moon

Monday gratefuls: Kate’s feeling better. Stefan and Lonnie on zoom. Tom’s gift of cartoons by Sack. Beau Jo’s pizza, novel and tasty. Driving in the mountains. The three deer I saw on the way to Evergreen, especially the tiny one. The bare rock, the cold streams, the lodgepole and aspen. Steep slopes. Florence and its art.

After a somewhat comical series of no-goes, I gave up on going to Vail to see Lonnie and Stefan. Stefan had a new hip done at the Steadman Clinic. Snow came to Vail on the first two days I offered. Not unusual, but enough to not make me want to do a two hour drive in it. Yesterday, my third choice, was MLK weekend. The second busiest of the entire year for ski traffic. And, Sunday, the Denver Post said, would be the busiest of the four day holiday. So, zoom.

Good to talk to them. Four years ago they decided to learn painting in an atelier in Florence. They’ve become patrons of the school as well as students, spending much of each year in Italy. Now they face an existential choice between remaining most of the year in Florence, where they’ve become part of an international crowd of artists and art students, or returning to the Twin Cities where their family lives. Would be a tough call for me.

The mood here is lighter. After a tough period of dog bites and exhaustion, I’m rested again. Kate’s had some issues, but eliminating tramadol from her daily meds has given her easier breathing. It’s nice to have a respite from angst.

Today’s MLK. I wonder what he’d do right now? Would he organize mass marches in the face of the rising right wing threat? Would he stay away from such events as the pro-gun rally in Richmond, Virginia today?

Will the MLK holiday become a neo-nazi, white supremacist rally day? A day to show “racial solidarity” and protest for the right to gun ownership. IDNK.

His dream, MLK’s, is mine and probably yours. I’ve always been soothed by his quote from Theodore Parker, Unitarian clergy and anti-slavery activist, “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” Still am though this seems to be a time when it’s not bending very much in the direction of justice.